Cinder
by AKhou
Summary: Little fantasy scenario inspired by Worm superpowers. What if powers had been introduced into a Lankhmar-esque low fantasy world? Following a troop of hired soldiers on the hunt for an arsonist laying waste to villages in the countryside to begin with, developing further from there. My first attempt at writing in English - please point out mistakes in reviews or PM, thanks :)
1. The burning man

They had been tracking him for five days straight, passing a good dozen of hamlets and thorps reduced to cinders, a trail of ash covering the snowy plains inbetween. The stories they heard were hard to believe. Survivors spoke of a man who came in the night, stark naked, who moved through the shadows and screamed like the thunder. What he touched was burned to the ground, the flames flickering into the nightskies, yet sparing the man who brought them over the plainsmen. Men and women were burned in their homes, livestock grilled in their stables. The few who dared stand against the man saw themselves burst aflame.

Hard to believe, Sarn ruminated, but then, so was the destruction that lay before him. Worse than most he'd had to stomach in the two since joining the company. He could not see many details in the dark of the evening, too early for the stars to show. What he did see was enough to tell that there would be no survivors in this village. As he returned to the other riders, guiding his horse by the leash past the rubble of what might have been a barn only a few days ago. He could still smell the roast flesh of pigs, mixed with other smells he didn't want to think about.

Another pair of riders who happened to return at the same time seemed less hesitant, having helped themselves to a large cut of meat that had been first cooked and then preserved by the biting cold of the winter winds. It left Sarn uncomfortable, but he could see their reasoning. Better take from the dead than from the living. Besides, this mission already took longer than expected. Their prey moved too fast for a man never seen with a mount, too fast for the kneedeep snow covering the ground.

"… bastard even torched the orchard by the river", he heard someone say as he was welcomed with the traditional greeting – a strike to the chest by his comrades. The speaker turned out to be Fish, their best marksman and the warrior of greatest seniority and seniority. The name was ancient, with everybody agreeing on the bulky man's bulging eyes being the reason. Like every archer he had massive shoulders, making him look more like a manta ray than anything else. He continued: "Rode on to the hill, saw smoke and flame about three miles from here down south. Wind's in our back, so we didn't see it earlier. Bastard's passed there just now, might even still be there. S'ppose we get lucky today." Fish absently put one hand on the longbow that hung at his horse's flank. While he grinned, the others looked less enthusiastic. Nobody was eager to face the man who allegedly destroyed almost fifteen villages single-handedly.

Sarn could understand their fears. He did not buy that the man was acting solitarily. More likely, the arsonist was assisted by a number of archers with flame-dipped arrows or bandits carrying concealed torches. He was good with numbers, and going by the speed with which the flames had spread through the villages Sarn figured there must have been about twenty helpers. It fit with the attack always happening at night. Have one man take the leading role, grab the attention, and have the other infiltrators approach with dark clothing. While everybody stares at the naked madman the roofs are set aflame. Since he was also a pessimist, he made that thirty attackers instead. Thirty robbers against his thirteen riders. Not good odds, but also not catastrophic. They had faced worse. Yet, there was one thing that bugged him. Robbers tended to, well, rob. But in these villages nothing was stolen. There was nothing to get there, anyway, but not even the granaries or the stables had been looted. Everything burned that was fixed to the ground, nothing taken of what remained. He had seen coinage and even a silver spoon in one ruined home, untouched. It didn't make sense. Was it to spread fear? But who would gain something out of it? Did the bandits want to establish a territory where they would not be disturbed, scaring off all possible intruders? He scratched that thought. They must know that such a killing spree would not go unanswered. His lordship does not tolerate strange indeed.

With a frown he turned back to the conversation, facing Fish. "I know you are in charge here," – a nod of ackowledgement – "but as second in command I suggest we split in two groups. One charges visibly, the other approaches from behind. If he has archers – and I think he does -, a full charge would be suicide. I say Lonn and Kaidn do the frontal approach, distract the attackers." He pointed at two riders equipped with lances, javelins and large wooden shields. "Lonn, you take the horn. We split a mile away from the village. You two ride towards it half an hour after we split, torch ablaze. Make yourself seen. As soon as you get attacked, sound the horn, use those shields and retreat. We know they are distracted and fall in their back, pluck them from their hiding spots. Half an hour should be enough time to find them." Sarn smiled, satisfied with himself.

Fish glanced at him, head cocked to the side. "Well, boy, sounds good told in a nice story like that. Makes it sound easy. Thing is, I didn't get to lead this pack because I made nice easy plans. I broke the lance when you were still sucking at your mother's breasts, boy! Too easy. Say, what happens when they get the shot before they grab the horn? Enemy archers not even seen yet, you just assume the two fools will react in time." "They got shields, they just ride in with them raised!" "Right boy, and in the other hand they have the torch and then Kaidn will grow a third one for the horn. Good thing they can hold the reins with their buckteeth, huh?" The two riders were looking even less pleased now than when Sarn had explained his plan. Before he could make an inappropriate remark he reminded himself of his rank, exhaled, and said: "Still, Breaksword Fish, I stand by my plan. I know that there are certain ri-" "Oh, I never said it is a bad plan, boy. Just that it was too easy. Yes, there likely are archers. The distraction and the call are good, too. But if you ever want to lead a fist of riders, make sure you know the weak points of your plan and explain them to the poor sobs who do the work. Look the two in the eyes. You just gave them the most dangerous role in this play. When you lead, you don't get to tell nice stories. You don't get to do that, you understand? Tell them what they might face. I know you're smart, boy. I'm fat, yeah, and I'm getting old, meaning I was to too good to die when I was young. Don't be smart. As a leader, you got to think yourself as stupid as that ugly mule you call your horse. Doubt everything you plan." By now, even in the dark one could see the warriors roll their eyes. Sarn's muscles were tense, his head tilted downwards, his jaw clenched. He hated Fish's lectures. The fool was so full of himself. Still, he managed a mumbled "Yes, sir." "What did you just say, Rider Sarn from Aldirk? Look me in the eyes when you speak!" "Yes, sir!" Sarn managed to put enough poison in the title to make a bull drop dead on the spot. Fish seemed to ignore it. "Very well, then. We do as you suggested. Good plan, well done."

It took them a while to move around the hill. The horses dealt badly with the cold and the deep snow slowed them down significantly. It did not help that by now the stars and the moon were shining brightly. They had covered every piece of metal on their bodies in heavy woollen cloaks, in order to prevent any reflections of the fires raising into the nightsky a mile and a half in front of them. Screams could be heard over the distance, despite the wind taking the sound in the opposite direction. Wind in the back was a good omen. It was not much, but going up against an unknown opponent shrouded by rumours? They took whatever they got.

After crossing a frozen brook, they decided to split. Lonn and Kaidn were handed one of the fist's horns and waited beneath some rocks. Fish pierced a fine hole in the neck of a leather flask and hung it in a shrub. "When it stops dripping or it freezes, you begin riding. Half a mile away, light your torches. There's an attack on you, you sound the horn. Got it?" Nods from the two riders. With that sorted out, the main group of eleven mounted men followed the curve of the brook that looks like it led past the village in some distance. They did not hurry, for every clanking of the equipment might give them away to archers in hiding.

Their was surprisingly little shrubbery around. Fish sent out individual scouts to search for hidden archers the next 100 steps or so, then return. The first six times, they – as expected- returned with nothing to report. No shrubs, no big trees, no outcroppings, nor any other viable cover. They might have moved on, Sarn thought. At least there had been now flaming arrows in the sky since they began their approach. Only the flames licking at the clouds, flickering in the wind. The sounds of dying livestock, some human screams mixed with the thunder of falling roofs and walls. A few hundred yards to his left, Sarn could see the blades of a windmill go up in fire.

Shortly after they sent out the seventh scout in a row, having made their way through half the distance, they heard the noise of footsteps and hectic breathing. A woman waded through the snow, wearing heavy snow boots under what looked like a rough night gown. Dragged by her hand was a young child, perhaps of seven or eight summers, that was blanketed in cloth. Sarn could not even tell its gender. Both of them were covered in ash, coughing from time to time. When Sarn pulled down his hood to speak to them, the woman screamed in surprise. Right – in the dark, she must have not seen the riders, with them and their horses being covered by dark cloaks and rugs. He cursed under his breath in expectation of another public "lesson" courtesy of Fish. For now, he hushed the woman.

"Be quiet! We're here to help!" Fish approached. "What's your name, woman?" His tone was severe. Sarn frowned. Did he want to scare her even more? "Biri, your lordship! Please, you must help my Bronor and t-" "Did you not listen to my man, Biri? Be quiet!" She swallowed, pressing her child against her body. The small one whimpered in a high voice. "Now Biri, you do as I say, understand? First, you hurt? No? The small one? Good, one worry less. Can you tell me what happened?" Still holding the kid tightly, she spoke after a moment's hesitation. "We were looking for Bula, your lordship, me and my Wenn here." She pressed the child's hand. Noticing the impatient look on Fish's face, she continued. "Bula's our cow, your lordship. She was about to calf, you see. I heard her go moo and thought that, ahm, that it was her time, so I ran and got my Wenn here to help. It's why I only got my night shirt, you see, and I am sorry for the immodesty, my lordship, but when a cow needs to calf you don't have time to ch – I'm sorry. So we got out and saw the smithy house burning! Had happened before, so I looked to help. But then the other house started burning, too, and then the next one and people screamed!"  
"Did you see any arrows above? Men with torches?"  
"No, your lordship, no arrows. But no time to look in the sky either, for there was this man in the middle of it all, just in the middle of the road, leaning to a barrel that rolled over there."  
"What did he look like? Any weapons?"  
"He was all naked, but I am not shy and I thought, Biri,he must have fled straight out of bed. The poor man must have been freezing, so I take off my gloves, want to give him at least something. He was mumbling something and when I got near he screamed at me, just shouted how cold he was! So I said, of course you are, you're naked and gave him my gloves. He tore them from my hands, his fingers cold, didn't even say thank you, but just then the barrel must have got a spark and started to burn, too, and he screamed ever more and that is when we two ran off. But now please, your lordship, please help my Bronor and the others!"

Fish gave her an odd look – as he always did with those bulging eyes of his that just looked too big for his face -, then gave a nod to the others. "Men, we continue as planned. Rori, you give the woman your coat and bedroll. I know about the pork you got earlier, now's your time to give something. Biri, you go hide somewhere safe from the wind, alright? Find a few rocks, cover yourself with the coat. Everything will be fine." Obviously, everything wouldn't, but for now it would suffice to give her hope. The way she had been rambling she was under shock. The last thing they needed right now was to keep eyes on a shocked peasant. They sent her away from the village and continued to circle it. Sarn studied Fish's face. Was there a hint of fear in it?

Before they reached the backside of the village, they encountered nine other fleeing people. All of them told roughly the same story – suddenly, building after building started burning. About half of them mentioned the naked man, some describing him as crying, some as screaming. One said he was robbing the dead, another said that he grabbed people and threw them into the fires. All of them had been caught by surprise, carrying only what they happened to find in the few seconds or minutes they had before they were forced to run. Sarn didn't like the thought, but he was pretty certain that none of them would survive through this winter. The closest villages had either been hit in the same way or already had to feed the firebringer's refugees on top of their own people. Nobody would take in any more strangers, not with a madman out there who some thought to be a demon from the deepest pits.

As if to give more weight to that last thought, the wind intensified and brought a hot cloud of smoke and stench over the approaching riders. It burned in their eyes even with hands and hoods shielding their faces. They had been unsuccessful in their search for archers further away from the village. According to Fish, the described lack of arrows in the sky and of hidden archers meant there must be infiltrators inside the village.

All they could do now was wait for Lonn and Kaidn to light their torches and do the distraction. Of the village, almost nothing remained untouched at this point. A stray thought crossed his mind – were fires supposed to burn this fast? It struck him as odd.  
The air was heavy with the smell of burnt flesh and hair, ash and sparks being carried away. A solitary wooden beam would stand a little longer, only to come crashing down to mock the remaining hope. It was hard to tell moving shapes from dead objects when watching through and blinded by the flickering flames, but Sarn was sure that of what might have been a community of a hundred people only a handful were left, stuck beneath tumbled roofs. There were almost no more screams to be heard. Some of the men had been eager to help, but Fish had held them back. He stuck with a plan, once made, even if it meant sacrificing peasants.

Almost no more screams – except for one. One voice was audible through the night, coming from directly beyond the highest tongues of flame, screaming in a pitch too high to be human. It was a man's voice, but twisted in a way that reminded Sarn of grinding teeth. Eery.

In the distance, slightly uphill beyond the village, they could see the torches of the two chargers light up, approaching quickly. "Now?", Sarn asked Fish. "No, boy, we wait. There might be no archers here, but we still got to make sure our brothers got the bastards' attention. No point in sacrificing one half of the plan only because the other didn't work out. You see, when we were fighting the Hulthra-Clan over in.. " Just as Sarn dreaded another lesson, the horn was sounded. It was hard to tell anything, but the torches stopped coming closer. Again, the horn. "Men, charge now! We storm that hellhole and hang their hands from our belts. Let's go!", Fish urged on. They all kicked the flanks of their horses and began a fast approach.

The drone of the horn stopped, only its echo continuing for a moment. Then, it was replaced by a deep sound that quickly swelled and rose to a higher pitch. It was hard to tell, at first, but Sarn realized it was screaming. Wailing, sounds of pain, coming from man and mount. There is no sound quite like a dying horse, unmistakeable. The two torchlights flickered up, blazed bright like the sun for a moment, then there was nothing but flame in the distance where Lonn and Kaidn had approached. And then nothing.

What had happened over there? No flaming arrows. Still some hundred yards away from the village. No way anybody had got to them that fast. Just as they reached the outskirts of the village, the male screaming returned for a moment. He hadn't even noticed it was gone. With his eyes adapting to the brightness of the houses burning around him in a wide circle, Sarn rode his horse down the solitary path through the village. In front of him, standing next to a burning tree there was a man. Naked and tall, almost lanky, not a single hair on his body. He stood bent over, his arms wrapped around his body in a tight embrace. As Sarn rode closer he could see that the man's posture was crooked, one leg bending at the knee in a painful angle. It looked broken and was dark with bruising and bloody crusts from a row of deep cuts and crushes. The man's skin was pale and of a blue-ish tint, with his toes and fingertips almost dark blue. His genitals were shrunken and almost grey in colour.

The whole group encircled the man, riding around him like sharks around their prey. Nobody attacked him outright, with everybody looking out for more bandits hidden behind some ruin. All their attention was caught when the man started rocking back and forth, mumbling something, then almost spasmed, snapped his face up, stared straight through them with bloodshot eyes. His back to the burning tree, he shouted: _"I AM COLD! WHY IS IT SO COLD? HELP ME! HELP ME, PLEASE!_ " He reached onto the tree, which in turn burst into ever brighter flames, the heat unbearable for the nearby horses who reared away in shock. Three send their riders crashing to the ground, covered by the rugs falling from their backed away noticeably, with only five riders keeping control or their mounts. Sarn, Fish and three of the others. The blaze was so hot that Sarn had to look away and cover his eyes, but the last thing he saw was the naked man embracing the tree, throwing himself against it while sobbing madly. The heat grew stronger, smoke filling his longs – and suddenly there were screams all around. He could hear Fish shout something, but was to busy keeping his steed from running off to listen. She moved back and forth, then trampled over something soft. When Sarn looked, he saw it was one of his fallen comrades, crawling away from a burning coat that lay behind him. He could see the man's leg had been broken by the hooves. He could worry later. More pressing was the naked man frantically tearing at another fallen rider's cloak. He pulled it from the man, but as soon as his fingers touched the leather it started burning, already reduced to ash before the man was done putting it on. Another frustrated scream, another cry for help. The tree was completely gone by now. What in all hells' name was happening here?

The riders who were still on their horses retreated as good as possible. Fish especially was kicking his stallion hard, hurrying a fair distance away. Was he fleeing?  
There was no time to help their fallen brothers. Get out the javelins and pierce the bastard. Sarn managed to control his horse, turned towards the demon-man again, spearpoint extended towards him. With a kick he rode by the man, prepared, aimed for his back and stung.

Except there was no sting. Where the man had just been cowering of a fallen man, gripping his victim by the hair, there was now only a man rolling in the snow with a red, scarred scalp trying to extinguish the fire on his head and his shirt. The smoke of burned hair stung in the nose. Instead, there was a scream followed by a snapping sound far to the right hand side of Sarn. Dismounted, Fish stood next to his black stallion, one hand holding his mighty longbow. Well, part of it – the wood was burning. The naked man had a tight grip on Fish's gloves and bow, incinerating them all. An arrow stuck in the ground a couple feet away. Fish tried to wrestle himself away from the man, but his burning gloves stuck to his towards him, Sarn hadn't much time to think how the man had crossed dozens of yards in the blink of an eye. All he could see was his leader kicking the attacker in the chest, sending him back flying. In the same moment, though, Fish's boot turned black and smouldered. The man spasmed on the ground, throwing himself around on the snow as if the very touch hurt him like the cut of a knife wailing and crying: " _WHY DON'T YOU HELP ME? YOUR CLOTHES! I AM SO COLD! OH GODS PLEASE HELP ME MAKE IT STOP! ICE IN MY VEINS, ICE IN MY EYES IT IS BURNING COLD MY LEG OH GODS MY LEG HAVE MERCY MY LEG SO COLD!_ "

Fish crept backwards, pulling at the smoking gloves with a pained expression, his teeth showing. When he finally got them off, his eyes went wide with terror.

Meanwhile, Sarn had arrived close enough to be in his spear's reach. The naked man crept towards Fish's gloves, reached for them and burned them in his hands, crying ever louder. Before Sarn could ract the man disappeared again, with his whimpering suddenly coming from the left where he lay on a fallen wooden sign next to a blackened corpse. Again, it started burning immediately. This time Sarn had enough clarity to throw his spear, hitting the man in his good leg's thigh. The wailing stopped for a moment, with the man just staring at the shaft. Sarn looked to the leader of his fist. "Fish, you alright?" "Piss off, boy, just kill the bastard!" He took it as a yes, quickly threw down his horse's woollen cover to Fish so he could extinguish any remaining embers on his clothing.

An angry sound. The man was on his knees, started to snarl at him, eyes wide, teeth showing, arms stretched forward. The spear shaft burned to ash in a mere blink. It looked like the man would leap, despite two grievously injured legs, but then he was gone.

Sarn's steed neighed in fear as something shifted her weight. "Look out, kid!", he heard Fish shout. He immediately let go of the reins, got at least one food free of the stirrup and then jumped away to the side. He was still stuck in the right food's stirrup, one leg bound to the horse's flank as it trampled around, overwhelmed by the situation. It shook and pulled at him, but at least he wasn't being roasted alive. Evading hooves crushing down on the ground he could see the naked man spread over the horse's back, bleeding from the leg, who tried to grip the reins, lighting them up in an instant.

The horse wasn't burning. The tips of the mane were starting to smoke, but it was nothing compared to the tree-turned-furnace he had seen before. When the smoke got worse and he could see the flame on the reins touch the steed's head, he realized what was going to happen next. Just in time, he managed to get his other foot free before the horse ran off screaming, taking with it his saddlepacks and his spears. His shoe fell down on the ground, but that was a small prize to pay. A death by dragging would not do well for his career.

Across from him the man had fallen down, looking at him and holding his legs in pain. " _YOU! WHY DO YOU HURT ME? WHY DO YOU HURT ME SO MUCH?_ ", he screamed almost inaudibly high. The man crept towards him. He would have only seconds. Less if the man just "jumped" again. What had he just seen?

The horse didn't burn. The reins burned. What else?

The man crawled closer, maybe four full steps away. The metal of the spear tip was glowing hot inside the wound, yet there was no smoke coming out from it. What else?

Behind him, Fish was whimpering in pain. What was the old fool doing?

Fish. Burned gloves. Sarn tried to stand, but just fell down again. Apparently his ankle was broken from the stirrup stunt. He hadn't even noticed the pain. He rolled a couple inches away. What else?

Gloves. Something with gloves. The woman gave the man gloves. What did she say?

The man crawled closer. When he waved his arm, trying to grip Sarn's fallen shoe, the young Lancer laughed. "Cold fingers."

As the man grabbed the shoe and held it to his chest, burning it, Sarn began to unbotton his shirt and threw it on the ground a couple feet next them, pointing at it. "Hey beanstalk, you're cold? Have my shirt!" " _COLD! IT HURTS! MAKE IT STOP!_ ", the man screamed in his general direction as he appeared directly next to the shirt, all but throwing himself on top of it.

While it smoked he removed his pant, his belt and his remaining shoe. As soon as he reached the underpants, Fish started to laugh loud, almost maniacally. Did he understand? He threw his clothes in different spots just next to the man on the ground, keeping only the little knife on his side. "Look at that, Cinders, more stuff to keep you warm!" The shirt was already gone. By the time the man had reached Sarn's pants and started to consume them with his fire, Sarn himself was just as naked. The snow was freezing his toes, but he did not care. All he saw was the other man rolling on his burning pants, savouring what little heat emerged from the small fire.

Still unable to stand properly, he moved forwards in a crouch, knife raised. When the man caught a glance at him, it was too late. He hacked deep into his enemy's pale flank, sending a stream of blood into the snow. The man's skin was cold where he touched it, gripping him by the ankle to prevent a counter. Sarn stabbed again. " _STOP IT! STOP IT PLEASE! IT IS SO COLD! MY LEG! DOESN'T ANYONE HEAR ME?_ " He didn't care when the man put a hand on his head, didn't care when he could smell his own hair burning and smoking. What mattered was that his hand could touch the man and was not burned. Another stab, this time almost getting the taller man by the neck. They wrestled. Sarn's chest hair was burned away, as was his beard. It didn't matter. His opponent's movements were getting slower. One more and it would be done. Just one more stab and – and he was gone? Sarn blinked. A scream from behind. He turned to see Fish, his upper body undressed, with the man sitting on his still-clothed legs. Right. There was nothing more to burn without his clothes and hair, moved on to the next source. Had to?

Fish yelled something inarticulate as the trouser started to burn. "Keep him busy, Fish. Feed him!" Sarn limped closer while Fish rolled around, trying to delay the consumption of his remaining clothing. He could smell cooked flesh and smoking fat. Had Fish heard him or had his own screams been too loud? Just two more steps. The naked man was sprawled all over Fish now, with smoke coming from his leader's back and scalp. The pants were gone. Two more steps and he could plant in the knife in the bastard's back.

He turned to the side, away from the two wrestling men. Fish yelled for help.

Three steps away from the two. More screaming, more stench. Sarn got ready.

There was a slight breeze. One stab. Heat. Two more stabs for good measure. He let go of the knife.

Almost hidden by the snow was the cover of Sarn's horse that he had dropped for Fish after he was attacked first. On top of it laid a man's corpse, bleeding from a wound in the neck, knife still inside, his arms in a close embrace around his body. Blood tinted the dark wool in a glossy red. Some smoke came from below the body, but nothing burned anymore.

A cough behind Sarn.

"Fuck me thrice", Fish said.

It was done.


	2. The Herald and the Headsman

Spring came early this year and the fields were red like poppy. Of course, this was a metaphor. It was too early for poppy to be in full bloom. A lesser poet would describe the field as blood-colored, by merit of the axe-wielding manbeast chopping some lowly serfs to smithereens.

Jonal was a man of refined tastes and sensibilities. There was no symmetry to the slaughter, no elegance to be found in the crude movements of the rampaging brute. Quite pointless, really, but then so was most of his comrades behaviour. If shortening a slew of peasants meant prolonged cooperation, Jonal had to repress his restraint and accept it as a minor inconvenience.

He dodged a running goat, fleeing from an enclosure that had been shattered by the Headsman's blows. The animal came bah-ing at him, nearly soiling his long red overcoat with mud. He read in it a mixture of confusion, fear and joy. Amusing, wasn't it? There they were, forcing their way through this mudhole of a village for no reason but his companion's satisfaction. And while there were some unfortunate incidents, some good had come out of it. The little beast was now free to roam the majestic wilderness, no doubt happy to be spared the kettle of some dirtfarmer's wife. From a certain angle, Headsman's work actually had an artistic ring to it, bringing an equilibrium, like his own private of rebellion. Overturn the tyrants who had so cruelly locked away the lesser creatures. Jonal smiled. Why, yes, the delay suddenly grew that much more enjoyable - another crash, followed by some deranged scream too high for a woman even. Headsman had just spoiled Jonal's romantic rendering of the scene by some senseless splitting of another goat. Ram? Doe? Jonal couldn't really tell, as he had never particularly cared about animals that still had fur on them.

He sighed. Time to bring an end to this. He put one hand at his hip, the other to his mouth as a make-shift megaphone. It was not necessary, as his voice wouldn't need to be heard to be _heard_, but some dramatic gesture underlining the conveyed emotion was simply pleasing.

"Hey, big one!" Hands remaining in their place he leaned forward, stood on one leg and bent the other one up behind his back like a scorpion's tail. "Would you kindly lay down the manslaughter and hurry on?"

There was silence. The few stubborn farmers who had decided to fight the threat off dropped to the ground, their hands pressed against their ears. A brown bird fell to the ground a pace to Jonal's left. Embarrassing. "I am deeply sorry, good people. Heartbroken, really." One of them tried to get up, one hand about to reach for a cudgel. Jonal harrumphed and the man fell to the side, sodding. "It is quite impolite to listen in, though." He turned to the Headsman. Unlike the others, the giant had not fallen. Even now, on his knees, he must have been six feet tall. The dull eyes on his unmoving silver face set on Jonal. Headsman did not speak; he never had, as far as Jonal could tell. Nor did he hear anything with those shiny metal ears of his, or he would have lain in the ground between his playthings. Jonal focused some more, this time directing his power directly at the giant. "Come, my friend, you had your time. There will be more exciting prey for you where we're going." The Headsman rose to his full size, now well above seven feet. Despite the massive bulk - he was almost two feet taller than the admittedly scrawny Jonal - he was elegant in his movements. Jonal watched his own reflection in the shifting body parts. It did not look like a motion orchestrated by the interplay of joint and muscle; instead there was a similarity to the octopus's tentacle or the winding of a snake, with the interlocking bone structures being mere make-believe props. Jonal had suspicions regarding his comrade's actual way of movement, but decided to dwell on it at a later point. Headsman had picked up his axe and strode towards him. Without further ado, Jonal the Herald pushed back a lock of oily black hair and turned around, his long coat swinging as if carried by a gust of wind. A step, a jump and on he lunged towards the monastery.

"It's about time we visited some old friends, don't you think?"

... if only to have the company of somebody interesting, he added in his thoughts. Somebody who could hold up the other end of a conversation. But no need to rub it in the silver man's face. There is no point in being cruel, after all. He was an artist, not a ruffian.


End file.
